


peepshow

by hexereii



Category: Fantastic Four, Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel 616
Genre: (mentioned asphyxiation actually), Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Bodyswap, Different Bodies Same Dorks Underneath, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex During A Body Swap?, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-10-09 23:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20518397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexereii/pseuds/hexereii
Summary: Victor swaps bodies with Reed. Locked away in the castle, with no way of contacting the outside world, Reed gets... curious.And horny.(The swap itself is certainly not a thing that Reed is thrilled by, but I'm stealing the ults arrangement where Reed actually agreed to a swap because he needed Victor's help, even though non-con body stealing is something Doom has done before.)





	1. Chapter 1

**R**eed’s first few hours in Victor’s body were filled with frustration and despair. Everything felt so clumsy and heavy that movement itself was a struggle--even with a different set of muscles and considerably more strength. As far as he could determine, the armor was actually _designed_ to function at half-power, and realizing that Doom had spent the majority of his adult life willingly carrying the bulk of it on his own broad shoulders baffled Richards to no end. Why would anyone choose to do that? 

If he could just get the damned _gauntlets_ off, get his hands on the lock mechanisms and maybe locate some tools–assuming he was able to drag himself into a lab–he might at least remove **one **obstacle to getting his own body back, but so far, he’d only managed to stagger into Victor’s bedroom and fall into a chair near the fire, clawing at the closures on his forearms desperately. There had to be some way of removing them, some trick to it, surely. If he could just work out what that was... There, maybe?

An unexpected click, and the right cuff finally loosened. Stifling a noise of sheer, desperate hope, Richards finally pulled his hand free, scraping the knuckles in his haste.

Normally, he’d be curious about how it all fit together. Currently, he just wanted the damned thing _off_.

Once one hand was free, the second was quicker–though certainly not easier–and then he had to pause and catch his breath, gripping the arms of the chair and staring down at his hands–at _Doom’s_ hands–in dismay.

Slowly, that feeling gave way to curiosity.

How long had it been since he’d seen these hands? Since anyone had, in fact? There were strange callouses on the palms and fingertips, places where long contact with unforgiving metal had hardened the skin, but the nails were neatly trimmed and scrupulously clean.

Reed flexed the digits in fascination.

How many lives had those hands ended? Clenching one experimentally to study the musculature, Reed felt a strange sense of power that he couldn't quite articulate. Latent magic, Victor or Stephen would likely have said. Nonsense, in his opinion; they were perfectly ordinary hands. Remarkably strong and skilled, perhaps, but magic? No.

He did _not_ want to recall the feel of those fingers–whether encased in polished steel or bare and rough–closing around his throat. He _definitely_ didn’t want to remember how often he’d hesitated on slipping free because the experience made his head swim; loosened a roil of conflicting emotions and responses in his mind and body. The pressure and Victor’s terrifying closeness. Breathing in the scent of him; of heated metal and ozone and hydraulic fluid, of leather and sweat and something heady but earthy, like amber or sandalwood. Meeting those mad, red-ringed eyes as they burned fiercely into his–Reed had long since accepted it as a shameful, private source of arousal. A hidden perversion that no one else need ever know about.

It didn’t help that he’d had the impression, more than once, that it was the nearest thing to erotic fulfillment Victor seemed capable of experiencing, himself. And always aimed specifically at _him_–the memories and their implications made him shiver, his new body eagerly responding until Reed winced at the gathering heat and hardness restricted painfully by unyielding metal.

Best if he directed his attention elsewhere, for now. Like freeing himself from the rest of this damned suit. The mask was first; he’d gotten that off before, and needed cool, unfiltered air to clear his mind anyway. It helped a little, but only a little.

(The clothes, the chair, the entirety of him still carried Victor’s scent, and with that came... certain thoughts.)

The helm came next, cloak ripped away in irritation and fingers prying at the hidden seams until he could finally rake both hands through thick, soft hair, shaking his head to cast off the lingering sense of imprisonment.

Silky, mussed curls played between his fingers. Odd; he had always seen Victor with straight hair, a hint of wave at most... but based on their portraits, both of his parents had the same dark, curling locks. An obvious point of genetic similarity, once he considered it.

The fact that Victor apparently _straightened_ it was a revelation, but chalk that up to vanity.

And speaking of vanity… He carefully traced broad fingertips over Doom’s face, feeling the dips and hardened, raised weals of scar tissue. Cheeks, nose, lips… oh. That felt… nice, even from his own hands. Who would have guessed that Victor’s lips were so sensitive? His own body certainly didn’t respond this way.

Sitting sprawled in a high-backed armchair, fire barely lighting the room, mask and gauntlets off, Reed could easily imagine what a sight _this _was–Doom carefully running a fingertip over his own bottom lip while his eyelids fluttered at the sensation. 

A soft, unexpected laugh bubbled up, edged with the giddiness of exhaustion as it dawned on him that this body was now his to explore. A small consolation for whatever havoc Doom might be raising in his own. There was no way to make contact with the outside world, Victor had already seen to that–all he could do for now was wait, trapped in this castle, this body, this armor. So much time on his hands–well, Doom’s hands, technically–and Reed’s insatiable curiosity was already piqued. Was there a mirror, hidden away somewhere? Surely there must be. No one as vain as Victor would have denied himself at _least_ a cursory inspection to be sure his cloak clasps were straight.

Yes. There had to be a mirror, and he would find it, but first things first–tearing off the belt and tunic with destructive glee to reveal all the parts beneath. It was easier to see how the plates interlocked now, and that much simpler to remove the remaining arm pieces and breastplate.

There, he paused. On the single occasion when he’d seen Victor shirtless in college, the sparse growth of chest hair and faint line drawing his eyes downward had been a source of flustered envy. Reed had felt foolishly inadequate (that the young Von Doom had already developed enough muscle to draw admiring glances didn’t help in the least) and painfully attracted at the same time.

The intervening years had been extremely kind, and even though Reed could boast of his own physical development now, his was a leaner build; his muscles sleek, like a runner’s. Doom’s body radiated physical power in a way that 'Mister Fantastic’s' never would, but now there was no envy. Just admiration and a deep, wicked need to **see**.

He found the mirror tucked away near the wall, a black cloth covering it.

“Nothing if not predictable,” he muttered to himself. The voice was not his own; deeper and richer than his, and hearing it from his own mouth was... unsettling to say the least. Alright, then–he would proceed silently. The mirror was full-length, a long oval frame bracketed by ornate wood. Reed placed it carefully it in front of the chair, took a deep breath, and pulled the cover off.

A shush of fabric sliding to the floor and a gasp as he saw, for the first time, exactly how much damage had been done to Victor’s face. Still recognizably the same man, but so much had been lost that Reed's stomach twisted in sympathy. No wonder he’d hidden it. Not for the horror of the wounds themselves; but for the recognition of what _had_ been. It was like seeing a work of art vandalized.

Watching his movements in the reflection, Reed ran a hand experimentally across his chest, awed by the movement of each muscle and dizzied by both the unfamiliar contact _and_ the visual of Victor doing exactly what he’d never in a million years thought to see. A thumbnail brushed his nipple, but the lack of sensitivity there only disappointed. Further exploration and he found that dragging his nails across the skin was more than enough anyway.

(When was the last time any of these nerves had been stimulated? Every touch seemed new.)

Only lower half of the armor remained, and Reed set to work on that next, dripping with sweat and growling in frustration as he struggled with the fitted plates, their edges knitted together so craftily that even finding where the locks _were_ took more patience than he had.

Finally, the job was done and he could see everything–every sculpted curve, every flawless inch. The dark dusting of hair was roughly as he’d expected, but finding that Doom was uncircumcised came as a shock. Another point of curiosity, there--how did it work? Was it different from his own body? Would it _feel_ different? Better? The same?

Running a finger across Doom’s lower lip again, Reed resolved to find out. Like any other experiment, he would have to follow it to its conclusion.

One hand slid downward, nails raking the skin of his stomach before roughened fingers curled around the shaft–moving gently to get some idea of exactly how the foreskin operated. A few lazy, exploratory strokes and Reed’s knees felt weak; he more or less fell into the chair again and suddenly… the image before him was _complete_. Doom, in his ridiculous, throne-like seat, naked and visibly aroused, his hair still damp with sweat as he touched himself _exactly_ where and when and how Reed wanted him to.

Added to the erotic scene was the simultaneous gratification of feeling everything that was done himself. Watching the reddened tip peek through his fist as he worked it. Studying the bunch and tug and taut lines of muscle as he braced his legs wider against the mounting tension.

It was too much. Far too much. Reed muffled a sound against the heel of his hand and heard it in Victor’s voice.

He'd just heard Doom... _moan_. Or at least his voice did. Clawing at the skin from shoulder to sternum, Reed mad the same sound again. and suddenly the tension shattered.

His eyes remained open for as long as possible, capturing every second until–

Too much, it was too much entirely, the slightest contact was so intense it almost hurt and–

_Fuck_.

Head back and hips thrusting into his own hand, Reed grasped at the armrest and held on desperately as the first sharp waves hit. He no longer cared what sounds he made; he couldn’t stop them if he tried. Heedless of the mess and the noise and everything else but his pleasure, Reed was simply and blissfully _gone_ until the last tremors had passed.

He pressed a palm to his sweat-soaked chest, feeling the hard, steady thump of Victor’s heart. Relentless as a machine. Did he have any idea–

_ “**Enjoying** _yourself, _Richards_?”

Reed jolted upright, too shocked to even cover his body--_Doom's_ body. He was **looking** at his own, and it stared back in haughty disgust, fully clothed in the Four's traditional blue uniform.

“How… How long have you been here?”

His own lips curved maliciously. “Longer than you’d like to know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doom has caught Reed investigating his new body... and um.
> 
> He's got some interesting feelings about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd continue it, so... belatedly... the continuation. 
> 
> Still working on the sequel to "Cast A Shadow" and a possible part two on "'mine,' he said" but the holiday season is gonna be busy and I'm doing Yuletide this year, so there'll be some non-doomreed stuff upcoming first.
> 
> Meanwhile... this.

** T**he body standing in front of him was still his own, in every cell and molecule. Logically, Reed knew that. But everything else about it, from the expression on its sharply-defined features to the stance–feet apart and chest out, arms folded behind his back so that the soft, mocking laughter highlighted muscles he’d never even thought about _having_ before–all of that belonged to Victor exclusively. 

  
The effect was disorienting; his body, but Victor’s mind. His lips, but Victor’s smirk twisting it. Sprawled in the armchair, watching this weird, dark parody of himself, Reed couldn't quite classify what he felt; not the expected shame at being caught out, surprisingly, and he certainly wasn’t afraid of his own image, no matter how distorted it was... Doom wouldn’t dare harm him in this state, he felt certain of that--though whether that was out of "honor" or because he'd be risking his own vessel in the process was anybody's guess.

  
Relaxing into the unexpected reality of his own supreme _safety_, Reed offered a thin smile in return. What did Doom have on his side but mockery? Laughter was hardly fatal, after all--he'd had much, much worse from Victor over the years.

  
He quickly discarded the thought that maybe, just maybe, he didn't entirely mind being watched.

  
Wrapping the cloak loosely around his borrowed body, Reed ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair and stared out through Victor’s eyes at his own face, lazy in the afterglow and as stubbornly defiant as ever.

  
“I assume you’ll want this back?”

  
Doom scoffed in disgust, crossing at a leisurely pace to study him more closely.

  
“In this state? Hardly.” Reed couldn’t possibly hear that voice as his. His mind refused it. Likewise the hand that caught one corner of the cloak, tossing it aside to leave him completely bare. “Though, seeing it–quite literally–through your eyes, it _is_ an attractive figure. Clearly you thought so too, given that you picked the armor's locks just to admire it in further detail." He paused, staring evenly at Reed. "You could have just asked."

  
Glancing away, Reed felt his face flush and moved to stand–the brush of gloved fingers against the bend of his knee froze him where he sat. What was Doom playing at, exactly?

  
"As if you wouldn't have refused."

  
The hand paused, fingertips idly stroking the skin of his lower thigh.

  
"In all probability, but denying me the chance to frustrate you was unfair."

  
There was no mistaking his intention as the fingers curled, thumb tracing one line of muscle upward.

  
“…Victor?” It came out as a whisper, and still sounded more like his voice than Doom’s.

  
The hand slid higher, and Reed gasped in surprise–eyes locked on Victor’s–on his own–grabbing at his wrist to stop whatever he intended to do. (He did not want this to stop. Was that the worst part of it all?) Letting go, still staring in a mixture of fascination and confusion, he waited to see if Doom would continue to touch him. 

  
“So, this _is _what you want,” Not a question, and it certainly didn’t need an answer (he couldn’t possibly be hard again, not even slightly, not this soon…) but Reed gave one anyway. Trying, as well as he could, to use some approximation of the authority and regal bearing that Doom carried so naturally.

  
“Not like _this _ideally. I'd rather... in my own body..."

  
The hand retreated.

  
“Like this, or not at all. Those are my terms. Stand up.”

  
Glaring up with what he _knew_ must be a petulant expression (how was he _doing_ that with Reed’s own eyes?) he stood slowly, wrapping the cloak around himself with a restrained version of Doom’s typical flourish; the gold disc-shaped clasps thumped lightly against his shoulders; a jarring reminder that he couldn't quite pull this off.

  
That smug, superior look wasn’t a single bit less punch-worthy on a friendlier face.

  
“How’s this even going to work?”

  
His own body was intimately familiar; slender and toned with a runner’s muscle. Very different from the hard, sculpted utility of Victor’s. Ironic; he favored flexibility while Doom preferred to be the human equivalent of a brick wall. 

  
"We're two of the greatest minds of our age, Reed. Surely we can manage the simple logistics of sex."

  
“This is– We shouldn’t–” Both of Victor's hands cupped his face, avoiding the scar tissue carefully–one thumbnail expertly tracing his lower lip and Reed felt his resistance crumbling, felt himself fall hopelessly into this wickedly bad idea. There wasn't a single complaint as he was pulled into the inevitable kiss, Victor teasing him with soft bites and light, lapping kisses until he found himself chasing the contact, frantic for more.

  
His hand--Victor's, but... well, his for now, anyway--gripped the front of the suit and pulled, testing his strength. Unaugmented, but impressive, and certainly enough to tug his own body forward. (Best if he not think too much about the visual impact of it all; of his hands, of _those_ hands, on his chest and sliding up his neck and into his hair. Better if he focus, for now, on how their bodies fit together and the giddy awareness of Victor's desire for him. Best if he _not_ assume that was part of the man's latent narcissism.)

  
Getting the suit off was easy enough, at least; he knew exactly where the closures were and Victor was clearly too distracted by teasing his mouth to stop him, or… he supposed, simply didn’t want to.

  
That the cloak slipped from his shoulders in the process went completely unnoticed; they were both naked, and nothing else mattered beyond that. The cool air and the soft, tantalizing brush of skin against his own. Victor’s fingers raking and curling in his hair, turning the tables until he'd somehow bent Reed's powerful, borrowed form against his own. Shape regardless, they were still who they'd always been, and for Victor... that meant control. 

  
Troubling, how easily he accepted that and folded into it, making breathless, needful sounds that were much, much more exciting in his enemy's voice. He decided to take it a step further and actually let himself whimper--something he'd never have done in his own body--overwhelmed by the need to explore, to elicit _some_ unguarded response from Doom. To touch and taste him (even if it was... well... complicated, just now) and hear the sounds he made. 

  
And Victor seemed only too willing to embrace that eagerness, offering patronizing words of encouragement and expertly guiding Reed’s head and hands exactly where he wanted until Reed himself forced a pause, tongue flicking across one nipple rapidly.

  
After all, he _knew_ that body.

  
Victor drew a sharp breath and released it in a quick, startled moan–repeating the action made his spine stiffen as he weakly pushed Reed away. Conflicted, but refusing to yield. Still... it was one point on the score card as Reed took his cue to slip further, onto his knees and exactly where he wanted to be anyway.

  
Funny. With his abilities, people had often suggested this possibility, yet he’d never been tempted to actually try this on himself until just now.

  
Pre-come gathered at the slit, salty and oddly familiar–he swept it away with a few gentle curls of his tongue before taking the tip into his mouth, rolling forward slowing and working with his hands at the base. Victor was silent, but gripped Reed’s head fiercely, holding him still while his hips did most of the work.

  
The pace built much faster than expected, and even though Victor's only sounds were altered breathing and one soft groan as Reed hollowed his cheeks and genuinely _sucked_ for as long as his jaw muscles could bear it, it was more than worth it. Even if they ended here, Reed thought, gasping between thrusts and barely keeping up, it was more than enough--

  
As if he'd heard the thought, Victor finally released him and pulled away, leaving Reed to sit back on his knees and catch his breath; a delicate, long-fingered hand stroked idly through his hair and that shouldn't have been nearly as rewarding as it was.

  
The effect Victor had on people. He'd never understood it. (He'd always understood it, that was the problem. He knew exactly what it was like to crave his attention, to want his approval, to dream of those hands on his body and wake up sweating and miserable for what he could never have.)

  
“I should have arranged the mirror for that–you might have enjoyed the view.”

  
...He understood, yes. But that was hardly the worst thing.

  
The worst thing was that Doom _knew_.

  
“Why did you stop me–”

  
Victor cheated; he used Reed’s abilities to pull him to his feet, hands sliding shamelessly over shoulders and ribs and down to his hips, then beyond that, kneading the muscles of his ass and thighs and hefting him further up to get their bodies impossibly even closer. Victor’s hands seemed to be everywhere, his teeth marking every inch of skin.

  
Question answered, then.

  
“Please–” Reed couldn't have articulated the request any further than that no matter how hard he tried. Verbalizing anything at all seemed beyond him, at the moment. That Victor accepted that breathless, half-formed request was a small blessing; he'd been backed onto the bed already; being eased into it was the next logical step. (How could those hands be everywhere except where he needed them most?)

  
Staring up at that face--his, but not really--and into eyes that were at least a shade darker than they should be, Reed squirmed urgently underneath Victor, practically clawing at the skin in growing desperation.

  
“...Damn it, Victor...” 

  
Finally, the soft brush of a familiar hand against his cock, fingers curling to loosely grip and lazily stroke. His breath hitched, hips jerking in shock, and (as long as he focused on the eyes and not the face, it wasn’t nearly so odd) wrapping his own hand around Victor’s, he could guide the motion at least–the quick, sharp kisses lengthened and grew sloppier as the rhythm built. He’d only just realized what else might be happening, unseen, when Victor abruptly let go and straddled him.

  
There were no words to be found. 

  
Reed felt his eyes widen (he could easily imagine what those _eyebrows_ were doing) but Victor’s were closed in concentration as he eased himself down slowly, his expression utterly calm and focused until he was fully settled. Watching in something akin to awe, Reed saw the lashes flutter as his eyes rolled upwards, lips parted and flushed--was it weird to find this beautiful, he wondered, as Victor rolled his hips and started, finally, to move.

  
The soft, high-pitched sound of helpless pleasure was impossible to stop; their relative positions didn't matter, Victor was still in control of the situation and all Reed could do was hold his hips lightly and rock upward into impossible tightness and heat. 

  
This was much too much--  
It couldn't possibly last--

  
“…_Fuck_,” he gasped eloquently.

  
Victor stared down with cold disdain, watching him unravel, _riding_ him at a slow, maddening pace and letting Reed fight desperately to move faster.  
He was barely aware that he was whispering little stray words–pleas and frustrated curses and Victor’s name, over and over again–until long, slender fingers interlocked with his and pinned them above his head, Victor finally moving faster now–taking him in deeper–and leaning above him, near enough that they were breathing the same air.

  
“Look at me, Reed.” He practically purred the order.

Confused and slightly annoyed, Reed opened his eyes and met Victor’s. (Not entirely Victor’s. Not that it mattered in the least.) Warm and dark and hypnotic; fascinating, the way they pulled at his mind, tugging at his psyche, at his experience, demanding to know all. Laying everything bare.

  
For just a second, they were like one being in two bodies–the sense of arrogance and amusement radiating from Victor’s mind made him uneasy; made him _giddy_–and then he was back in his own skin and flooded with sensation, the sweet, aching stretch and building pressure combining into one single thing–Victor gasped and Reed felt the sudden pulse inside him; welcomed the flood of warmth as he came; his own release was just as intense and unexpected, head back and nearly howling as he rocked downward, unexpectedly delighting in the little hints of pain at the edges.

  
(Victor had clearly done something _to_ him, had _changed_ him somehow, he’d never _howled_ before) And Victor had pushed himself up to curl around him, kissing him through the last waves and smoothing back his hair.

  
“You... absolute... _bastard_." Reed managed softly. It sounded more like an endearment, somehow.

  
He felt Victor's laughter more than heard it as exhaustion caught up with him at last, dragging him into the loose, drowsy calm that preceded sleep, his forehead resting awkwardly against Victor’s shoulder.


End file.
